One Ridiculous Crush Required Per Pubescent
by Hollywood Harlequins
Summary: What did paintings like? He pondered. Paint perhaps? Nice frames? Not glasses frames, painting frames. Naw, too obvious. It had to be something diabolical, something brilliant, something that would sweep her off of her metaphorically fat feet.


Harry was sure he was in love. How he never noticed her before was beyond him. Especially because she was so fat. No, so FAT. (Harry was rather immature.) In fact, she was downright blubbery. Harry had seen whales that looked like her. They were fat. No, so FAT. But that doesn't matter when you're in love. It blinds the little imperfections. No, fat imperfections. No, scratch that, FAT.

It came suddenly to him one day. He was going about his business walking down the hall, robes swishing around his not fat frame, when the hot hunk of woman appeared into his sight like a painting almost… actually she was a painting. A fat painting. No, so FAT. In fact, even though she was a two dimensional painting, the fat lent her three dimensional quality. He froze. He stared like an imbecile. She looked at him oddly over her double chin.

"Harry?" she asked. She repeated it, "Are you alright dear?" He couldn't think of anything to say but, "Did it hurt when you fell out of heaven? I mean, that's a lot of weight coming down."

She rolled her eyes. "If you can't remember the password, then just ask." She swung open. A long while passed. Harry continued his tree impression. (That means he didn't move.) It almost looked real, except that he didn't have bark, or leaves, or squirrels and other small woodland creatures inhabiting his limbs. He did have limbs, but they were human limbs and not tree limbs. The same word but used in reference to entirely different organisms. He was wearing a sensible green sweater vest, so the reference wasn't entirely inaccurate.

Enough time passed that the fat lady in the pink dress assumed he went into the Gryffindor common room already and swung shut. Needless to say she was surprised to see Scar-head still standing there with his mouth agape.

Two years passed… (That's a Bratz reference.) He missed a lot of classes and got two years behind. He smelled rather awkward too. Harry probably would have died there if he didn't have two such good friends. They made sure to stuff food down his throat and water him like a tree even though he wasn't a tree… yet (Hermione was working on that.) The fat lady painting had gotten so used to her immobile gawker that she was surprised when he finally did speak.

"I'm in awe of your beauty. You're like some strange aquatic creature crashing through the stormy ocean waves." (He tactfully refrained from mentioning that the creature he had in mind was a whale.) For some reason, he used a Latin accent.

"What was that?" The fat lady asked.

"I think you're pwetty," he said in a baby voice.

"I'm sorry?"

"I'd tap that," he said in a gangster voice.

"Rrrrriiiiiggghhht."

Suddenly fearful that he'd embarrassed himself, he ran away. It wasn't quite running because he hadn't moved in so long. It was more of an awkward stumble. If trees could run, they would run similarly. Not that he was a tree.

Harry found himself in the library. He was in need of a game plan (a reference to pretty much every sports movie ever, including High School Musical; which as its name suggests wasn't a sports movie, but it had basketball in it, which is a sport. And as we all know, sports have game plans. Actually some of us might not know this. Some of us are sports illiterate. When we say 'us' we obviously aren't referring to us three because we referenced it in the first place.) to woo her.

What did paintings like? He pondered. Paint perhaps? Nice frames? (Not glasses frames, painting frames.) Naw, too obvious. It had to be something diabolical, something brilliant, something that would sweep her off of her metaphorically fat feet. Feet that were fat like a whale's feet if they had feet. But they don't have feet because they're sea creatures and have fins. It came to him in the best flash of inspiration that ever inspired him. This inspiration flashed like lightning. (There might be a connection there. Just give it a minute…) She would love him forever after this.

It was the middle of the night. His fat lady love snored like a whale in her frame. Sneakily, he slithered (here's another reference) to her side. In between his teeth he clenched a paint bucket. Who knows why he didn't just use his hands. They were free after all. Like Picasso would have done, he started to paint. Also like Picasso, he placed some body parts in anatomically incorrect places and used an odd combination of not flattering colors. For instance, to make her eyes stand out more, he put it in her mouth. And what used be a pretty pink dress, was a dress that looked like a rainbow threw up macaroni on it. Not the good kind of macaroni, but the generic off-brand. Close to the original, but doesn't quite taste the same.

Voila! The boy who lived (that means he didn't die) took a step back to admire his work. He felt like throwing up macaroni. Coincidently, he had snuck meal of the stuff earlier; and not the good kind. She was hideous! Now, not only was she fat, but ugly to boot! No, so UGLY.

With this realization, Harry fell out of love. That was a relief. Whistling his own tune, he turned and walked away without looking back. Well he did look back once, but no one turned into a pillar of salt, this isn't the Bible. Rather he turned to pick up a quill he dropped. He continued on his way. Then he stopped short.

"I like the way you ride that pony Sir Cadogan," he said in husky tone. (Not a dog; a low, gravelly tone of voice.)


End file.
